


The Great Southern Pansy Campaign

by BladeAchilles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: But that's what's happening I'm so sorry, Eventual Romance, First Time, Homophobic Language, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, The World is not ready for Matchmaker!Shadwell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19082995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BladeAchilles/pseuds/BladeAchilles
Summary: Madame Tracy picked up on more than Aziraphale realised during their shared experience, Shadwell gets a new mission in life, and nobody is ready for the consequences.Least of all Aziraphale and Crowley.





	1. Prologue

Afterwards, when wounds were being (metaphorically) licked, loose ends tied up, and survivors accounted for, there were differing opinions on what, exactly, had started the whole affair.

Madame Tracy would claim that it all happened because as lovely as their cottage outside Lower Tadfield was, Mr S like most men, bless them, liked to feel useful and wanted to get out of the house now and again. Newt disagreed however, arguing that it had something to do with the fact that ever since Adam had read that article on Elder Loneliness he had been sending Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale to Shadwell and Tracy’s cottage on a regular, rotating basis in order to read wholesome literature[1] to Shadwell and to make sure that he didn’t put sugar in his tea and took lots of bracing walks.

They were both right, but what neither of them knew is that it had even more to do with the fact that sometimes, when the topic of the Apocalypse That Wasn’t came up, Madame Tracy would get a sad look on her face while talking about the Poor Pining Lamb that had shared her body and third best dress. Even while trying to find where Brian had hidden the sugar lumps and condensed milk, Shadwell _noticed_ when Madame Tracy looked like that.

 

[1] Pepper insisted that the _Harry Potter_ books were just the sort of wholesome literature that the elderly needed in order to keep their mental faculties sharp, and that _Harry Potter_ was especially good because the reading level increased as the books went on, allowing Shadwell’s decaying neurons to practically double, _actually_. Adam suspected that Pepper read them because she enjoyed the frenzied outbursts of speculation on how many nipples Dumbledore had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First proper chapter coming soon!


	2. Phase One

It had only been a little over a year since The Events had taken place, so Aziraphale felt justified in taking a little longer to lock up than normal, running his fingers lovingly over the no-longer-burnt leather volumes lining the walls of his bookshop. He was in the process of what he would emphatically deny, should anyone ask, was smelling his _Bugger Alle This_ copy when the door to the shop suddenly flew open. That interesting Witchfinder Sergeant man came stumping in with a determined gleam in his eyes, the flaps of his hat bouncing with every step. Aziraphale couldn’t help remembering what had happened the last time Shadwell had been in his bookshop and flinched. Hurrying over to greet the man and ensure he stayed far away from anything fragile, he was about to ask why the Sergeant was in London when he was brought to a sudden halt. Shadwell was brandishing what looked like a large silver pin in Aziraphale’s face, and the angel was worried that he might put an eye out. Given the state of his current strained relationship with Heaven, Aziraphale thought perhaps it was best to avoid unnecessary damage to his corporeal body.

            ‘Oh, I say, please do be caref-’

            ‘Ach! You’ll be needing this, my laddie, be warned!’ With this cryptic statement, Shadwell shoved the implement into Aziraphale’s bemused hands, peered suspiciously at the angel, and then stomped out as quickly as he’d come in, leaving the bookshop’s owner to stand there, mouth agape.

 

   

* * *

 

_One week later_

Crowley pushed the sunglasses up and inspected the slightly tarnished pin, rolling it between his fingers while Aziraphale babbled away nervously in the seat across from him. ‘That is the fifteenth silver pin he has given me - they just keep showing up all over my shop! I mean, honestly! I sat on one the other day, it simply is getting to be too much!’ Crowley snorted at the mental image of prim Aziraphale leaping out of his leather armchair with a startled squawk. The angel paused his nervous hand-wringing just long enough to shoot Crowley an indignant look. ‘Please do take this seriously my dear. What if -’ he paused and shot a look around the interior of the Ritz as if a pin-armed Shadwell was about to leap out of the fern in the corner. ‘What if the man thinks I am about to be attacked by a werewolf? I have my worries about his mental stability you know, and I simply cannot take much more of this!’

            Crowley laughed. ‘That loony old bastard is probably just trying to make sure that you keep the Witchfinder Army payroll coming.’ He suddenly tossed the pin at Aziraphale, absolutely not at all just to see the angel yelp in that adorably prissy way of his. ‘Or maybe he just wants to solve that age-old question and is trying to see if you’ll begin dancing on the head of one of these things. Either way angel, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Soon enough he’ll get another wild hair and be off bothering someone else.’

            Aziraphale’s face cleared and he began to beam excitedly. ‘ _Oh_. Oh, I say…’

 

* * *

 

_Another two days later_

Crowley pushed aside Aziraphale’s waving hands and examined the angel’s bleeding forehead. ‘I’ll have to miracle it, I’m afraid.’[1] He paused. ‘You said he did this with a stapler?!’

Aziraphale started wringing his hands again, which in normal circumstances would have brought a smirk to Crowley’s face and a slightly uncomfortable glow to various other parts of his corporal body, but these were not normal circumstances. ‘I’m afraid I made a mistake, and the Sergeant did not take it very well, he was rather startled in fact, and….and… well, it’s just been so long since I’ve had the chance to practice the gavotte that I got rather carried away I’m afraid.’ Aziraphale slumped dejectedly back into the sofa, refusing to meet Crowley’s narrowed eyes. The demon sighed dramatically[2] and waved his hand causing the trickle of blood coming from the scrape on Aziraphale’s forehead to disappear.

He made a mental note to post an ad on Gumtree looking for 18th century folk dance enthusiasts.[3]

* * *

 

Shadwall had been taken aback and silent as he made his way back to the cottage he shared with the reformed jezebel on the outskirts of Lower Tadfield. Clearly, he had underestimated his own powers of persuasion, and the southerner had gotten confused and … misdirected. Perhaps it would be best if he turned his attentions to the other one for a while. Aye, that would be for the best, especially as he was meant to collect the Witchfinder payroll soon.

            Still, best give the first one a nudge in the right direction to make sure The Campaign was continuing according to plan. Searching through the various stacks of paperbacks the Whore of – Tracy, _Tracy_ kept around the cottage, he found just the right one. Getting both an envelope and permission to send the book off from the harl– Tracy, he carefully wrapped up _Devil’s Kiss: My Love Affair with a Mafia Don_ , addressed the envelope to Mr A.Z. Fell, and retired to his study to begin planning the second part of The Campaign.

 

* * *

 

[1] Technically speaking, the damage could have been easily fixed with a simple plaster, but a) Crowley was keen to take advantage of the distance that Heaven and Hell were keen to put between them and Crowley and Aziraphale, and b) as much as Crowley would in normal circumstances love to see Aziraphale spend a few days with Peppa Pig plasters on his face, the angel was already having a rather disappointing day.

[2] Something that Crowley had perfected in the seventh century.

[3] When you come to think of it, Crowley reasoned, encouraging that sort of behaviour in the 21st century was just the sort of thing that any right-, er, wrong-thinking demon should do. Was practically his diabolical duty.


	3. The Other One

 

 

Crowley had fully intended for his monthly payroll meeting with Shadwell[1] to go a certain way. Crowley’s way included a sternly worded comment about scaring innocent bookshop owners and perhaps a brief glimpse of Crowley’s monster face and a certain Witchfinder Sergeant cowering in the corner, tugging his forelock and agreeing to leave Aziraphale alone and maybe wetting himself just a little. Yes, Crowley had the meeting planned out step by step.

Of course, that was not what happened.

 

* * *

 

 

            In reality Crowley had barely opened his mouth to say something along the lines of ‘Will you stop hitting my best friend over the head with a stapler just because he tried to gavotte you’ when Shadwell very slowly and deliberately spilled his thermos of half tepid tea, half dissolved sugar all over Crowley’s brand new Midnight’s Caress silk shirt. Crowley gaped in confusion, for once speechless as the sergeant growled something about ‘away with ye clumsy devil’ and ripped the shirt clean off of Crowley (and doing irreparable damage to the seams in the process, Crowley might add).

Shadwell glared intensely at his chest, nodded once and then stormed off into the London night – but not before sweeping the waiting payroll money plus another fiver ‘fer ma tea’ into his pocket.

 

The problem wasn’t that a man had waltzed into Crowley’s apartment and ripped his clothes off without so much as a by-your-leave, he later told a commiserating Aziraphale over a tightly gripped glass of single malt scotch[2]; after all this had happened loads of times over the centuries and Crowley was becoming used to it. It was more that a man had waltzed into his apartment, ripped his clothes off without so much as a by-your-leave, and then simply taken notes on a grimy little notepad and departed. It was like Hastur's 3,000th birthday party all over again.

Aziraphale nodded along consolingly, tutted disapprovingly when Crowley related the appalling way Shadwell had squinted one eye as if staring through an invisible microscope, and patted the poor man’s knee at several appropriate times throughout the narrative. The Sergeant's behaviour was getting truly appalling lately, and it warranted bringing up a few more bottles of his best wine. 

The angel also decided that he could risk attracting Heaven’s attention with one teensy little miracle and fixed the seam on that outrageous shirt that Crowley seemed so fond of when the demon got up to refill his glass.

 

* * *

 

 

The amount of sympathetic alcohol consumed that night may have gone some way towards explaining why Aziraphale failed to connect the dots, as it were, when two days later Shadwell flung the door to his bookshop open, roared ‘TWO a’them!!’ triumphantly, and then slammed the door shut with such force that one of Nostradamus’ cookbooks fell onto the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] Crowley originally was of course going to stop paying Shadwell once he’d seen just what the Witchfinder Army really consisted of. But the angel had gone on and on about how worried he would be if half the Army’s payroll stopped, as Shadwell was intending on becoming a homeowner and after all Witchfinder Table had four young children to support and it was at this point that Crowley gave up and agreed to continue paying out. It had everything to do with a desire to get Aziraphale to stop nagging him and nothing whatsoever to do with the relieved look on the angel’s face and the way he beamed at Crowley for the rest of the meal. Nothing whatsoever.

[2] His hands were certainly not shaking, that was just a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-ed by Faoi_chielt


	4. Calm Before the Storm

Technically yes, a nightingale was singing in Berkeley Square, and technically yes, an angel was dining at the Ritz. The basic ingredients were there for a cracking great romantic time - singers should have been gargling soda water and brushing up on their crooning in preparation. But one look at the individuals involved would have deflated even the sappiest of romantic singers and caused them to give it up as a bad job.

They were just about to start dessert, and neither one had so much as looked at each other the entire meal. Aziraphale was looking (there was no other word for it) bedraggled, and there was a distinctly hunted air about Crowley. Although not visible to mortal eyes, the sadly ruffled and neglected state of Aziraphale’s wings caused everyone who glanced at him to wince without quite knowing why. Crowley’s black suit had somehow lost its shine and was nearly as gloomy as its owner’s drawn face. He was absently shredding the tablecloth to pieces and had nearly reached the salt and pepper. Both flinched at any sudden movements or noise above a hushed whisper. Bobby Darin would have shaken his head in despair and Tori Amos would have given a hollow laugh at the sight.

Crowley tonelessly broke the silence. ‘He managed to get all the way past the doorman and up to my flat the other day.’ His tablecloth shredding had by this point upset the saltshaker into Aziraphale’s crème brûlée, but neither of them noticed.

 

* * *

 

 

_Shadwell had suddenly appeared like a plague in Crowley’s spotless kitchen, clutching a sheaf of photographs. Crowley gave what he would deny to his dying hiss was a squeal and dropped the plant mister. ‘Oh no, not you again! What the Hell do you want?!’ Crowley thought vengefully of how he was going to ensure that the doorman to his flat complex was going to forget his bags and get a trolley with a broken wheel in every Tesco he set foot in for this. He’d left very clear instructions on how to handle visitations from lunatic Witchfinders._

_The Witchfinder Sergeant scattered the photographs on Crowley’s countertops in response. He stabbed an emphatic finger at one of them and then tapped his nose knowingly. ‘I borrowed that youngster Wensleydale’s fancy new camera, very handy that was. Might get one for the Army, could come in very useful for spotting covens.’ Crowley leaned over and saw that nearly every photograph was of Aziraphale’s Thursday meetings with his new Gumtree gavotte friends. A few photographs of shrubs and one of Shadwell’s thumb were scattered throughout however, and none of the angles were very clear._

_Crowley shoved the photographs back towards the grubby man. ‘What am I supposed to make of this? So you’ve graduated from Harassment to Stalking, congratulations! Do you want a commendation?! I mean yes, obviously generally speaking I would give you a special commendation for this sort of thing, part of the job description, but I’ve told you to leave us alone!’ Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think how he could get the angel to find a new location for his dancing group without letting on that a man with binoculars and a thermos had been photographing them from behind a nearby hedge._

_Shadwell had the audacity to roll his eyes at this. ‘He’s got all his posh clothes on, you ken! He’s nae naked at all.’ He tapped his nose again knowingly in a way that made Crowley’s eye twitch, pocketed the contents of the sugar bowl sitting by the pile of photographs, and then stumped out of the flat, leaving Crowley aghast at the sudden new turn of events. He really was not at all sure how he was going to explain this to the angel._

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale mechanically took a bite from his crème brûlée and stared morosely into the distance. His mind was still on the, er, _item_ that Shadwell had thrust into his arms three days before. He and Crowley had gone to a play before dinner out of habit, but neither of them had really enjoyed it or even been really aware of what was happening on stage. Aziraphale had slouched in his seat the entire night and hadn’t even been able to muster so much as a single gasp let alone a hushed warning to Desdemona. This uncharacteristic silence would have normally caused his companion rather more concern than he would have let on, but Crowley had not noticed, his hands absently rolling and unrolling the programme until it had started to disintegrate.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was the pinkest whip Aziraphale had ever seen **[1]**, leather straps flopping about with every move the Sergeant made. He was vaguely aware that Shadwell was saying something, and winking in a rather ominous fashion, but by the time Aziraphale managed to come to his senses and shriek out a ‘what on Her green earth?!’ Shadwell had gone and the shop was empty except for a single customer. The woman in a fussy green cardigan was clutching a copy of Amours de Voyage and conspicuously avoiding looking at Aziraphale and the pink atrocity in his hands. The angel had been so flustered that he hadn’t even bothered trying to dissuade her from actually buying the Clough, hurriedly wrapping the book up and ushering her out of the shop. Later that night he had dropped Shadwell’s …. the wh…. the offending object into the bottom of the Thames, disguised in a trench coat that Crowley had forgotten at his bookshop in ’99 and a woolly bobble hat from the Lost and Found pulled as far down his head as it would go. A passing Australian tourist had stopped him to ask directions to some nightclub or other and Aziraphale had actually jumped two feet straight into the air before gasping out an apology and scurrying away._

 

* * *

 

 

The angel winced, more from the memory than from the bite he had just taken. He could still sense it there, sitting obscenely at the bottom of the Thames like in that Poe story. ‘To be honest dear fellow, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really mean it. Something must be done.’ He shifted his gaze to Crowley for the first time in the course of the dinner, a mute plea in his eyes. Crowley stopped shredding the tablecloth and straightened up before dropping into his first calculated slouch of the evening.

‘No argument from me here, angel. I’ll tell you what we are going to do – it’s been a mistake letting him just pop up and ambush us day in and day out. We are going to take the fight to him! We’re going to go back to Lower Tadfield and take the fight to him, see how he likes having his life upended.’ He raised his glass and stared at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. ‘We stopped the Apocalypse after all, we can stop one crazy old Witchfinder.’ The angel slowly raised his glass in response, looking worried and unsure.

‘Oh I do hope so. And I suppose that worst case, there’s always Alpha Centauri.’ Crowley was glad for the glasses that hid his response to this last, emotion welling up in him that he had been firmly tamping down with practiced ease the last few months.

‘To Alpha Centauri!’ They clinked glasses as the nightingale hopefully redoubled his efforts in Berkeley Square.

 

[1] Generally speaking whips were more Crowley’s aesthetic, but what with the various monks, poets, and hermits that Aziraphale had bumped into over the years, he had run across several of the things. Some of the gentlemen at that delightful dancing club in Portland place had been rather fond of them too, now that he thought about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies it's taken me so long to update! Life has been a little busy lately, but hopefully I will be able to wrap this fic up soon. Hopefully Shadwell's thought processes are clearer to the reader than to Aziraphale and Crowley, but if not the next/last chapter will have some light being shed on the whole thing. Hope you enjoy!


	5. Grand Finale

_Querie 3 :_

_From whence then proceeded this his skill? Was it from his profound learning, or from much reading of learned Authors concerning that subject?_

_Answer:_

_From neither of both, but from experience […]_

 

 

_from The Discovery of Witches by Matthew Hopkins_

 

* * *

 

 

When Crowley and Aziraphale finally arrived at the cottage that Shadwell and Madame Tracy shared on the outskirts of Lower Tadfield,[1] they had been prepared to begin the battle of wills with the Sergeant straight away. They had not however been prepared to see Newt and Anethema hanging streamers from the door post. Newt paused in his work, waved at the bemused pair still sitting in the Bentley, and then promptly fell off his stepladder. Anethama clambered off her own ladder to help him up. ‘Oh hello there, good to see you both again! Adam said you would be slightly late. He and the rest of Them are playing with Dog in the back garden, I think. There’s drinks and something called a caterpillar cake inside.’ She dusted Newt off with a fond look and then continued to festoon the cottage door with brightly colored crepe paper.

            Aziraphale and Crowley shared a confused and worried glance. If Adam was involved with… whatever was happening, then that changed things. How things changed exactly they weren’t quite sure, but they knew that they would have to tread lightly. Aziraphale sighed, mentally abandoning his tentative plans of simply smiting Shadwell on sight for the sake of Cosmic Peace, and Crowley refocused attention on Newt, who was polishing his glasses.

            ‘Oi, you there! I suppose you know your boss has finally gone completely bonkers?’ Crowley snapped at Newt, who jumped nervously, dropping his glasses in the process. Aziraphale was sure that he heard Anethema giggle under her breath.

            ‘Ah. Yes, ah, I had heard, that is to say, the Sergeant asked me for, um, well the thing is if it’s Destiny it’s Destiny, I mean, well…’ Newt’s babbling trailed off as he gave Crowley a sort of queasy half-smile. He then promptly bolted for his ridiculous car, muttering something over his shoulder about Adam being insistent that there be sufficient Ribena at the party, so he was just going to pop down to the shop to pick up a couple more bottles. Crowley stared after him, mouth agape. Anethema’s face was unreadable as she gathered the step ladders and went to put them away in the little shed next to Tracy’s garden before joining Newt.

            ‘They’re both mad!’ Crowley hissed. Aziraphale sighed.

            ‘Well my dear they are both Witchfinders, I’m afraid it comes with the territory.’ Begrudgingly Crowley admitted that Aziraphale had a point. The demon and angel looked at each other, steeled their nerves, and entered the cottage prepared to fight off a crazed Shadwell with all their combined Heavenly and Hell-ly Might if need be.

            What they found upon entering was Madame Tracy with two glasses of cloudy lemonade. ‘Oooh there you are dears, that nice young boy said you would be running a bit late. It’s unseasonably warm out there so I’ve got you both a nice cold drink, now could one of you be a dear and help me hang these fairy lights when you’ve finished? Ta.’ She handed the protesting demon and angel the cloudy lemonade, pinching Aziraphale on the cheek and absently straightening Crowley’s carefully ruffled collar. Sputtering protests, Crowley demanded to know just what Tracy thought she was doing, asking the Number One Most Wanted from both Heaven and Hell’s lists to hang fairy lights.

‘Absolutely not, it is beneath our dignity!’ Crowley glared at Aziraphale, who hastily dropped the end of lights that he had been in the process of helpfully draping across the mantel. ‘Why are you all decorating this hovel anyways? Celebrating Shadwell finally getting sectioned, eh?’ Tracy tutted amusedly.

‘Oh no my dear, fancy you thinking that! Mr S has just gone to meet some nice folks who are coming in on the bus, he’ll be back shortly. No, this is just a little celebration for the group of us, what with it being the first time that all of us are back in Lower Tadfield after that little Apocolypse affair and all. Adam did say you would be a little late but I am so glad that you got here alright, it can be a bit tricky finding the place.’ She started humming tunelessly but enthusiastically as she bustled about, cutting slices of cake to put onto mismatched china plates.

Aziraphale felt like he and Crowley sharing looks with of confusion tinged with despair was all that they had done for weeks now. He was getting to be something of an expert at it by this point. After finishing their drinks at Madame Tracy’s urging, they decided to accept the fact that it was time to confront Adam. Neither of them would admit it, but they were somewhat nervous around the boy, despite their semi-official status as godfathers. It was the slightly knowing gleam in his eyes that did it, not even Michael could match that level of discomforting certainty. Aziraphale fussed over his cuff until Crowley stilled his fingers with his own warm hand. ‘Time to go get some answers, angel’ he said quietly. Aziraphale wordlessly nodded and they stepped out of the cottage into the back garden.

Adam and Them were playing some sort of game that seemed to involve lots of running about and shouting Avast Ye Scoundrel at the top of their lungs. Dog was wearing a black eyepatch against his better judgement. Crowley winced, remembering 1717.[2] Adam waved at them and ran over, brandishing a cardboard scimitar. ‘Oh hullo, ‘Ziraphale, Crowley. Do you know if Newt got the Ribena? Wensley says that it’ll rot my teeth but I say that what’s the point of summers if you can't have some cold sugary drink once in a while?’ Crowley attempted to sound stern and authoritative, but he was slightly afraid he just sounded peevish.

‘Never mind the damn drinks, I wish people would start focusing on the important stuff!’ Wensleydale winced at the swear word but nodded solemnly at this outburst while Brian rolled his eyes dramatically. Crowley charged ahead regardless, Aziraphale nodding encouragingly at him. ‘Right, now I’ve got some questions and I damn well want some answers! Why is everybody throwing around decorations willy-nilly and acting as if there was some sort of party going on that we knew about? Where is that infernal Witchfinder Sergeant, and why has he been making our lives hell-no, worse than Hell, not even Ligur could irritate me this much -? And why does everyone keep saying that you ‘knew’ we would be late? How did you know we were coming, or is that a stupid question given…’ Crowley trailed off, feeling slightly derailed in his much deserved rant and unsure how much he should explicitly refer to what -who- Adam was.

Infuriatingly, Adam decided not to answer any of these questions and simply said ‘the Sergeant will be here soon, he went to go get the gavotte club from the bus stop. I’ve been telling him that long walks are good for heart health, a very important thing for men his age. Look, that’s him now!’ Adam pointed to a group in the distance making their way down the lane towards the cottage. Aziraphale stared in horror.

‘But…but that’s my gavotte club! How did they find us, The Gumtree Gavotters don’t even meet on Thursdays! Oh my goodness gracious!’

Pepper sighed. ‘Well Adam invited them, obviously!’

Adam nodded proudly. ‘I did, got to have dancing at a party, stands to reason!’

‘We all helped with the decorations,’ Brian chimed in.

‘And the entertainment!’ Adam finished, looking far too pleased with himself. Crowley whirled and hissed in frustration at this.

‘Entertainment?! What bloody entertainment?!’

Adam waggled his eyebrows in an infuriating way. ‘Well some of it will be obvious later on, but we talked to Newt and although he couldn’t help set it up, on account of being, well you know, _Newt_ , he told Shadwell how. There’s a karaoke machine inside!’ Crowley was vaguely aware that his mouth was gaping open in a gormless fashion, but he was too far gone to care.

Pepper proudly contributed the final nail in the horrifying Shadwell Party Coffin. ‘It’s got Mariah Carey all queued up and everything.’

 

Aziraphale broke and ran.

 

He wasn’t proud of it, but he broke. Before he knew quite what was happening, he was dashing through the cottage, surprising Tracy who upset a bowl of crisps, and was out the front door. Anathema had left the door of the shed open, and without thinking he ran inside and pulled the door shut. He leaned against the door and tried to catch his breath.

‘Well isn’t this a fine kettle of stark raving mad fish,’ a voice said in his ear. Aziraphale jumped in surprise, banged his head on the beam, and collapsed against Crowley.

‘I…I didn’t even notice you had followed me,’ he panted.

‘Of course I followed! You just up and legged it, and you are the only other sane creature here! I wasn’t going to let you leave me alone with these nutters.’ Crowley inspected Aziraphale’s forehead and tsked under his breath. ‘You’ve got a lump developing, here let me.’ He breathed softly on the offending injury and it miraculously healed, leaving a fading sensation of warmth that seemed to seep towards Aziraphale’s brain.

‘Karaoke, my dear.’ he offered in explanation. Crowley’s glasses had fallen off in the dash and those golden slitted eyes were gazing into his. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that they were both breathing a bit heavy, the breath mingling in what little space remained between them. It was a very small and cluttered shed, after all.

‘Yes, and Mariah Carey to boot. Another one of those things I got a commendation for without actually having anything to do with it.’ They lapsed into silence, staring thoughtfully at each other. Overhead a curious spider dropped onto Aziraphale’s curls, hoping to hear a bit more. Crowley raised a hand and brushed it away without breaking eye contact. A muscle ticked under his jaw as he appeared to wrestle with indecision before blurting out ‘There’s always Alpha Centauri you know. No-one to stop us, we could just leave them all behind and see the stars, just the two of us.’ He held his breath, waiting for Aziraphale to answer.

The angel smiled tremulously. ‘Oh yes, I think I would quite like that.’ Crowley blinked in surprise.

‘D’you mean it? Really?’

Aziraphale looked somewhat taken aback. ‘Well of course I mean it my dear boy, I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it!’

‘It’s just that… well, I remember what happened last time I asked. What’s changed?’

Aziraphale looked up and said, quite simply, ‘I said that you go too fast for me, I didn’t say that I would never catch up.’

 

When Shadwell flung the door to the shed open three minutes later, he roared in approval at the sight of the pair jumping hastily apart. Crowley was touching his lips with a trembling hand and the sort of dazed look that one only gets when something you have waited six thousand years for happens. Aziraphale looked slightly concussed but with more than a tinge of smug satisfaction. ‘Ach! Finally, ya daft bastards! Took ye long enough!’

Before they could respond to this intrusion, Adam poked his head around the door and said ‘See, I told you that they would be late but they’d get there in the end.’ He waved to someone they couldn’t see. It was then, as the Gumtree Gavotters started to cheerfully dance round the shed, that the fireworks went off.

 

Adam never told them how he managed to get his hands on fireworks in the exact shape of Crowley and Aziraphale engaging in what Madame Tracy called a ‘romantic embrace that just about made you cry, it was so sweet bless the lambs’ and what R. P. Tyler would call in his letter to the editor of the _Tadfield Advertiser_ ‘the most lewd and obscene bit of performance theatre’ that the village had seen since those hippies had gotten lost on their way to Stonehenge. Shadwell beamed with pride.

 

 

‘It’s like I’ve been telling ya for months – you’re nae a witch, neither of ye, so that’s alright then! No idea why you’ve been putting it off this long, ya dafties. Still, lucky for you ol’ uncle Shadwell took an interest in you, eh? I consider myself something of an expert in the area, and ye ken well why.'

 

As it turns out, Aziraphale and Crowley did end up leaving the party early and heading for Alpha Centauri. But unlike any previous Alpha Centauri plans, this was less of a running-away scenario and more of a running-towards scenario. They had 6,000 years of catching up to do and after the last few months they fancied a bit of privacy.

* * *

 

 

[1] It was a sign of how upset they both were that Aziraphale had only muttered something about Crowley’s reckless driving once and Crowley had at one point actually stopped to allow a pedestrian to cross.

[2] Considering the amount of rum he had consumed during this year, perhaps ‘Crowley winced, not-remembering 1717’ would be more accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to everyone that it took this long to finish - my life got rather hectic for a while and I just now got a chance to work on it. Hopefully the ending isn't too disappointing!


End file.
